


In Name Only

by Corycides



Series: Tumbling On [2]
Category: Revolution (TV)
Genre: F/M, Forced Marriage
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-05
Updated: 2013-12-08
Packaged: 2017-12-10 11:35:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,895
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/785619
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Corycides/pseuds/Corycides
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When is a wife not a wife? When she's a hostage.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [kathrynthegreat](https://archiveofourown.org/users/kathrynthegreat/gifts).



> Prompt: CHARLIE/BASS- FORCED MARRIAGE (WHEREIN BASS MARRIES CHARLIE TO END THE WAR)

When is a hostage not a hostage? When she’s a wife.

It was the only compromise they could reach after hours of negotiation, one that struck neither as fair. Monroe would give Miles the milita, and Miles would give him Charlie as collateral. Only they couldn’t afford to undermine their rapprochement. The appearance of unity – of that terrible partnership – was the only thing holding Georgia off.

So, ‘love’ bloomed conveniently in the ruins of Trenton and a cowed Militia preacher said the vows as Bass shoved a heavy gold ring impatiently onto her finger. 

He cradled her wrist in one hand, fingers pressed against her pulse, and his skin was warm against hers. It was the first time he’d ever touched her. And it would be the last.

‘Just until this is over,’ Miles promised before he rode away, hugging her until her bones creaked.

‘I know,’ she said. Her knuckles dug into his back as she hugged him back, even though they’d been chasing ‘over’ since Chicago and always seemed to fall short.

People cheered them into Philadelphia, lining the streets and clapping like it was a parade. Charlie looked for militia agitators in the crowd, but there weren’t any. It seemed to be spontaneous.

‘Everyone loves a celebrity wedding,’ Monroe said, watching the crowd with jaded eyes. ‘They’ll get tired of you soon enough.’

‘Good,’ she said.

It was the closest to a civil conversation they’d had since…ever. Charlie didn’t like it. She didn’t like much about Philadelphia. When she’d agreed to this she’d expected marriage to be a diplomatic way of saying imprisonment. The cell would be nicer this time, but the concept would be the same.

Unfortunately no-one had told the people of Philadelphia. They thought it was real; they thought she had some sort of influence. Charlie had a sinking feeling that some of them were expecting the next generation of homicidal dictators.

The thing was, they needed the person they thought she was. Monroe was terrifyingly brittle – dangerous as smashed glass – and someone who loved him could have put the jigsaw pieces together again.

Charlie didn’t love him though, so all she could do was blunder through the field of glass and hope not to cut her feet down to the bone. It sort of worked. He sort of listened. Sometimes. The maids appreciated not having to clean blood of the floor so often.

The first time he came to her bed he was drunk, reeking of cheap whiskey and cordite. He crawled onto the mattress and curled around her, finding the angles of her and tucking himself in. She woke with a flinch, hand clawing under her pillow for her knife.

‘You’re my wife,’ he said, voice rough and thoughtful.

‘Technically,’ she said, voice dry and cracking. ‘Monroe…’

‘I know,’ he said. ‘I’m not that drunk, Charlotte.’

He stayed there though, arm hooked over her hip with casual possession, until she fell asleep. She hadn’t thought she could fall asleep with him there, but after a while the fact he wasn’t doing anything lulled her brain into complacency. In the morning he was gone.


	2. Chapter 2

His wife.

Bass twisted his wedding ring on his finger, gold band blood-warm against his skin, and let his mind dwell on the idea. Charlotte Monroe, his wife. Willingly in his bed, loyal at his side and safe at his back. The image made his throat dry and tight with frustrated longing.

‘General Monroe?’ the Plains ambassador said, voice cracking nervously. ‘I, um...’

He coughed himself to silence as Bass turned his attention to him, clearly not wanting to suggest that Bass hadn’t been paying attention. Was he really that unpredictable, Bass wondered idly. He’d never killed anyone just for offending him. Not directly.

‘President,’ he corrected.

The ambassador gulped. ‘Sorry, sir?’

‘President Monroe,’ he said. ‘General Matheson and President Monroe. It helps avoid confusion, don’t you think?’

His smile seemed to just make the ambassador more nervous, his adam’s apple jerking spasmodically under the freshly-shaven skin of his throat. The man shifted in his seat, tugging at the worn, sharply starched collar of his shirt. The news of the Republic’s recent alliance with Texas - of all places - had changed the terms of engagement. Before that the Plains nation had been the wooed, now it had to do the wooing. The ambassador seemed to be remembering just how much of a cock tease they’d been.

‘Of course,’ the man said. ‘Having considered your proposed alliance-’

Bass held up a hand to silence him. ‘My wife is expecting me,’ he said. His reaction to the words caught him off guard. He concealed it the best he could. ‘Perhaps we can finish this conversation tomorrow at Mrs Neville’s benefit. Widows and war do go together.’

It was less of a threat and more just something to say. Bass didn’t even know - until the man blanched grey at the suggestion - that he had a family. Still he pulled himself and his papers together, standing up and inclining his head respectively.

‘Of course, sir,’ he murmured, trying for a smile. ‘Tomorrow.’

He scuttled out with every sign of relief. Bass slouched back in the leather chair, lacing his hands together over his stomach.

‘My wife,’ he tried again, letting the words linger on his tongue. The bubble of warmth that popped in his chest made him grimace, hating his own weakness. It was a fraud, his marriage, a think of alliances and deals and dislike - or no, he shouldn’t sugarcoat it: hatred - held in abeyance for a common cause. ‘Fool.’

Just because she didn’t stab him when he staggered drunk into her bed, even if the only time he slept without dreaming of blood and betrayal was with her bottom tucked into his groin and his face buried in the lemongrass sweetness of her hair, didn’t mean it was real. No more than his revived ‘friendship’ with Miles was real.

It would end and he’d be alone again. Or dead. It was probably the same thing. He could feel himself walking the razor edge of assassination, every effort he made to keep himself safe just making his footing slippery with blood.

He pulled open the drawer and lifted out a glass and a bottle of whisky, twisting the top off absently and pouring. If nothing else, he supposed, it would give him an excuse for a good night’s sleep.

* * *

Usually it was a toss-up as to which of them had the most restless night. Charlotte never seemed able to sleep more than fifteen minutes at a time and the shift in her breathing would rouse him. It was still better than his usual night-terrors, jarring awake in a clammy, drunkard’s flop-sweat and spending the rest of the night wakeful and bitter.

Most mornings, though, he was gone before Charlotte roused fully, peeling himself off her before she woke to his erection digging into her back.

He’d hit the sweet spot between black-out drunk and dreamless sleep last night, though. It was only when he felt Charlotte peeling his arm off her stomach that he woke. To save their blushes, he pretended to be asleep still, rolling over and stretching. He was still wearing his shirt and trousers, but at least he’d remembered to kick his boots off. Last time he’d forgotten, Charlotte had shoved him out of the bed.

She was never scared of him. Hated him, pitied him...but never feared him.

The bed creaked, mattress shifting under him, as she clambered and went padding over the floor to collect her clothes. She was never tidy. He listened to her pick up her boots, drag her jeans from somewhere under the bed and the rattle of that ringed belt of hers. Instead of the slam of the bathroom door, she just stood at the base of the bed and watched him.

He breathed through it, heat settling heavy in his balls, and then she sighed, a trembling little noise, and left.

Left in her bed, the smell of her on his skin, Bass slid his hand down to the hard jut of his erection. He rubbed his palm over it, arousal coiling up into his stomach, and listened to the splash and scrub of her washing up. He could imagine her tanned, youth-smooth skin and work-practical hands, dripping sods and cold-peaked nipples.

He stopped himself with a groan, pulling his hands away. Jerking off in her bed while she wasn’t there though, that was a sleaze too far. It probably wasn’t beneath him, but he liked to think he had more class.

* * *

 

Her dress was long and fitted, the fabric a deep, robin’s egg blue. The same shade as Bass’ field uniform. In public - per their alliance - she was solemnly attentive, her hand on his arm and the warm, curves of her against his side. She was managing him - he was aware of that - but he allowed it. Besides, he could admit that there were times it didn’t hurt to have a...reason to entertain second thoughts before precipitous behaviour.

At least, he could admit it to himself. Although he’d send anyone else who suggested it to be interrogated.

No one questioned that he was kinder with his beautiful new wife, and her dangerously unpredictable uncle, to keep on side. No one mentioned to Charlotte that sometimes his second thoughts were the same as the first.

An hour into the evening - careful social niceties exchanged with Julia as if she wasn’t a traitor’s wife - Charlie stood on her tiptoes. Her breasts were soft against his arm, distracting enough that he only gave half an ear to her murmured excuse.

‘...a drink,’ she said and slipped away.

It took too long. Bass glanced around casually once, then with a frown.

‘Do excuse me,’ he told the Plains ambassador, ignoring the man’s dismay at another delay. ‘I seem to have mislaid my wife.’

No one else at the party was wearing the same shade as Charlotte. Some secret women’s intuition, or more likely Julia’s delicately exerted influence over anyone on the guest list. Bass felt a twitch of...concern. He had enemies; one of them was Charlotte.

Disengaging himself from an promotion hunting captain’s wife, he headed for the garden. He paused as he caught sight of her through the glass. Charlotte was alive, apparently unarmed, and whatever she was doing with a road-worn Jason Neville on the balcony, it wasn’t a coup. Not yet anyhow. Although he supposed he could still call it treason - the boy was still technically one of his militia and Charlotte was his wife. For once, the thought eddied cold anger through him.

The thick hall carpet muffled his footsteps, and the two of them were too intent on each other to notice him anyhow. If it wasn’t for nepotism, Jason Neville would have never made it out of basic training.

‘...this isn’t the time or the place, Jason,’ Charlotte said, shaking her head.

‘I hate the thought of you with him,’ Jason argued, grabbing for her hand. She pulled it away before he could. ‘Charlie. None of this makes sense. How could you marry him? He’s my Dad’s age. You hate him.’

‘Stop it. If anyone sees you...’

Bass stepped in behind Charlotte, hooking his arm around her narrow waist and tugging her back against his body. She fit against him well, even with the twitch of tension that kept her shoulders stiff. People were watching them through the windows while trying to look like they weren’t; Julia’s fear-brittle voice remarked shrilly that she hadn’t realised Jason was home.

‘Lieutenant,’ Bass said, voice cat-lazy and pleasant. He splayed his hand over Charlotte’s hip, tracing patterns around her hipbone with his thumb. ‘Has Miles sent word?’

Jason stared at Charlie, eyes pleading for...something. Guilt and lies held Charlotte mute. Bass dipped his head and nuzzled a kiss into her hair, lips brushing the neat curve of her ear as he said, ‘I won’t be a cuckold, Charlotte.’

She shivered, her fingers gripping his arm. He heard her swallow.

‘It was a report from Tom, love,’ she said lightly. He couldn’t help his hand tightening on her hip as she said it. ‘He left it at the Hall.’

Pain grimaced over Jason’s face, his eyes dropping to the cup of Bass’ hand and then away. ‘Yes, sir,’ he said. ‘General Matheson sent his regards. I should go and convey Major Neville’s message to my mother.’

He saluted stiffly, took one last regretful look at Charlie and left, getting grabbed by his thinly smiling mother and hustled off the minute she could extricate him.

* * *

 

Miles was coming back to the city.

Bass slouched behind his desk, flicking through the report. Not so long ago, he would have been thrilled and a bit worried at the news. Years ago he’d have been relieved his brother had come through the latest skirmish in one piece. This was the first time he’d had mixed feelings. At the very least he was going to have to start sleeping in his own bed again.

The door opened and Charlie slipped through, all shadows and long hair in the light. Her eyes were snapping, the diplomacy she usually tried to manage him with forgotten. He liked her like this. Bass put his gun back down on the ink-stained blotter.

‘Charlotte.’

‘What was that about?’ she snapped. ‘With Jason, in front of everyone?’

‘I could ask you the same question,’ he pointed out, voice sliding cold and dangerous. ‘What was that with Jason, in front of half my command staff?’

She hooked a stray curl from the corner of her mouth. It was glossy with colour. Bass preferred her without, but it did give him the interesting option of kissing her mouth naked again.

‘He...Jason doesn’t know this isn’t real,’ she said. ‘Miles-’

She paused, biting her lip. Bass finished the sentence for her in his head: Miles didn’t like the boy and thought this was a good way to get rid of him.

‘Miles didn’t think he was a good enough liar,’ she said instead. Her mouth twitched at the corner. ‘Although that’s all he ever called him before. Jason just doesn’t understand why-’

‘Why you’d be interested in me?’ Bass asked, raising his eyebrows.

It was her cue to splutter uncomfortably, edging her way back from the drop of offense. Charlie just nodded.

‘Exactly,’ she said. ‘I hate you. The only reason I didn’t try and assassinate you is that Miles convinced me I’d never get close. This whirlwind romance? Jason knows me well enough to know it wouldn’t happen.’

Bass stood up and stalked around his desk, grabbing Charlie’s arm and yanking her close. Her nose wrinkled at the smell of whisky on his breath and he wanted to-

‘I will not be made to look a fool,’ he rasped deliberately. She blinked and swallowed hard. ‘I will not have my officers thinking I am a doddering imbecile whose pretty young wife is rutting with some callow boy behind my back.’

She went to slap him. Instinct grabbed her arm, his fingers closing around the narrow bones of her wrist, and shoved her back into the wall.

‘Don’t do that,’ he said coldly.

Charlotte glared at him, as defiant as the first time he’d met her. ‘Get off me.’

He thought about it; he also thought about the softness of her lips and the smooth skin of her stomach under his hands.

‘If I don’t?’

‘Uncle Miles would never forgive you.’

Bass let a smile twitch over his mouth. ‘There’s a lot he’s never going to forgive me for,’ he said, leaning in until he could feel her breath on his lips. She grabbed his jacket, twisting her hand in the heavy material, and braced her forearm across his chest.

‘Don’t,’ she said.

But he wanted to. Except it would poison whatever fragile accord they had managed, and for what? One stolen kiss? Or did he plan to take more than that? It was about the only crime that Miles couldn’t justifiably throw in his face.

No. He made his fingers - suddenly stiff as an old man’s - relax around her wrist so she could squirm loose. She stared up him suspiciously, hand still gripping his jacket.

‘Just go,’ he told her harshly. ‘If you want to fuck Jason, just don’t do it in public-’

She stood on her tiptoes and kissed him, her mouth quick and impatient as it moved against his. For a second he froze, more surprised than if she’d pulled a knife, and then he kissed her back. His hand cupped the back of her head, fingers twisted in her hair, and she nipped his lower lip with sharp, curious teeth.

When she shoved him away, he felt lost.

‘I...’ She swallowed hard and touched her lips, wiped the taste of him off them. ‘That was a mistake. I shouldn’t have done that. It was just...I don’t know, I did it and I shouldn’t have.’

Bass wiped his thumb over his lower lip, smearing away the gloss of colour she’d left. He didn’t say anything. Charlotte stared at him, eyes colourless in the dim light, and then fled. The sound of her footsteps echoed behind her. Bass didn’t go to her bed that night. There were limits to his self-control.

* * *

 

It was a kiss, it didn’t mean anything and Miles would kill him. Bass still knew all that - so he didn’t think too hard about why he’d told his valet to get in a stock of lambskin condoms. The man quirked an eyebrow - usually Bass expected the women he took to his bed to take care of that sort of thing themselves - but did as he was told without comment.

Charlotte wasn’t really his wife, but maybe she could be his for a while.

  
  



	3. Chapter 3

Water dripped down the back of Charlie’s neck, still hot from her bath. She raked her fingers through her hair, nails scraping her scalp, as she wrung it out and tied it up in a loose knot. Her skin was pink and tender from scrubbing, but it hadn’t helped to clear the fog from her brain.

She imagine she could still taste him on her lips - whiskey, salt and surprise - and feel the rough tenderness of his hand on the back of her neck. The scrape of her fingertips, the odd vulnerability of lowered lids hiding those ice-cold eyes. It made her squirm, reaction clenching from her groin down to her toes, and then feel sick.

Off Monroe’s orders, Charlie had lost everything that mattered to her. Her dad, her brother, Maggie and Nora and… He hadn’t killed them directly, but he’d set their deaths in motion.

So how could she look at him and want to kiss him instead of kill him?

Except…

She poked at the thought, trying to chase out a rationale, an excuse for the tangle of confusion in her stomach. It could just be familiarity, her hatred worn out, worn down against the fact she wasn’t allowed to kill him. Or the fact that sometimes - just sometimes - she saw the sharp, honed strategic mind that still made his men look at him with respect verging on adoration.

Maybe she was just screwed up.

She pulled a robe on over her bare shoulders, heavy cotton sticking to her damp skin, and stared at the door tying their rooms together. What she should do was wedge it shut, jam a chair under it, and put their relationship back on the easy side of hatred. Instead, she let herself through into his room.

Monroe was alone. It was only as she let the door slip from her fingers that it occurred to her he might not have been. He sprawled on his stomach, blankets sliding low over his muscled back, with his arms wrapped around a pillow.

He wasn’t asleep. She’d slept with him - literally, chastely, probably not as innocent as it should have been - enough to know the difference in the line of his shoulder, the tilt of his mouth. It was easier, right now, to just go along with it. She untied her belt, surprised her fingers were steady, and shrugged the robe off, throwing it over a chair. A muscle in his forearm twitched.

Charlie hesitated, considering her options, and then crawled into bed with him. She squirmed under the covers, tugging them up to her breasts. It was her only concession to the flutter of butterfly-nerves in her stomach, and the fig-leaf of cotton over her breasts did nothing to disguise the skin so close to hers. She leaned her head on her arm and watched him, the fine lines of wrinkles around his eyes and the scar - barely there - that creased the corner of his lip. It was rare that she was willing to let herself look at him, study him.

She touched his jaw, tracing the line of bone with her thumb. The fuzz of blonde stubble was rough under her touch.

‘I know you’re awake,’ she said. ‘You don’t sleep through someone walking down the hall outside, never mind someone breaking into your room.’

He opened his eyes. They were so shockingly blue it made her breath catch. When she used to see the posters, hammered to barn doors or pinned to corpses hung from trees for banditry or rebellion, she’d imagined his eyes were black or brown. Hard and full of secrets. Not blue as the sky and ridiculously easy to read.

‘You’re my wife,’ he said. ‘If anyone has the right to come into my room, it’s you.’

‘Hostage,’ she said.

His eyes shuttered, emptying. ‘Of course.’

Hand still on his jaw, she shifted forwards and kissed him. Again. The second time. He wasn’t surprised this time, but he was still careful. His hand found the dip of her waist, thumb stroking along the curve of her hip, and he let her kiss him. Enthusiastically, responsively let her kiss him, but she was very much in control.

She kissed her way from scar at the corner of his mouth to the full curve of his lower lip, suckling it into her mouth and catching it between her teeth. Her tongue dipped into the warmth of his mouth, exploring the lines of his teeth and tangling around his tongue.

When she broke the kiss for a breath, heart too quick in her chest, he tightened his fingers on her hip to stop her going too far. ‘I thought the kiss was a mistake.’

‘It was,’ she said, tracing the hard lines of his shoulder with her hand. ‘It probably still is.’

‘So?’

She pushed him over onto his back, sheets folding around the rise of his erection. His neck was salty under her lips, trailing down from his jaw to his collarbone.

‘I’m not your wife,’ she mouthed against his adam’s apple. ‘This isn’t real-’

‘Yet.’

‘Ever,’ she denied, voice too quick, too nervy. A slow breath steadied her and she licked her lips. ‘We’re pretending. It’s a ploy, it’s going to be over soon. You know that, right?’

He trailed his finger up her arm, from wrist to elbow. ‘I know. That’s not what I want.’

She pulled back, shaking her head. ‘I don’t love you.’

Monroe - Bass? - Monroe stretched, muscles sliding over his bones and under skin. War, even not on the front lines, had melted what little spare flesh there was on him. Black ink stark against his tanned forearm, against the white sheets.

‘I don’t love you either,’ he said. Reaching up he tucked her hair back behind her ear, letting his hand skim over the curve of her cheek. ‘Maybe I could. The only things I’ve ever loved that didn’t die, that I didn’t ruin, were Mathesons. I do want you, I do need you.’

He reached down and took her hand, twisting his fingers through hers and holding them up. Gold glowed from their fingers. Monroe brought her hand to his lips and kissed it, lips warm against metal. ‘I need this, I want this.’

That was the thing wasn’t it. The ‘except…?’. He needed her and she needed that. Miles didn’t, Rachel didn’t...and Danny was gone. It was Monroe who asked her opinion on evacuation strategies in the west of the Republic, since she knew the area. It was Monroe who irritably tossed manifests at her and told her to make herself useful. She oversaw running the city - which he found unutterably boring - and she enjoyed it.

‘We can’t have that,’ she said. Freeing her hand she slid it down his body and wrapped her fingers around his cock, skin soft and fragile as silk. His breath jerked in his chest, ragged and pulling at his control. ‘This...maybe, we can have it.’

Despite the evidence pressed against her palm, his hips lifting towards her, Monroe’s face was unreadable. No. There just wasn’t anything to read - she was never sure if the emptiness was real and the emotions were just a skin over it.

‘I want this,’ she admitted.

He blinked, eyes going human again, and he pulled her down on top of him. ‘I can work with that.’

Rolling her over under him he kissed her, pressing her head back into the pillows. Hands cupped her breasts, thumbs scraping over her nipples until she gasped between his lips, and his mouth moved over hers with desperate hunger

She hooked a leg over his hip, foot pressing against his thigh, and pulled him close. The sheet was tangled over their hips, his cock pushing against her through the thin cotton. The rough scrape of fabric against her wet flesh made her swear, digging her nails into his back. He laughed, a rough, pleased sound, and ran a hand down to her hip, fingers following the crease of her thigh into her sex.

‘Tell me what you want,’ he said, biting his way along her jaw and down to her throat. The pinch of his teeth and the wet, sweet suction of his mouth arched her up against his fingers.

‘This,’ she said, squirming under him. His fingers hooked, pleasure pulling through her and knotting low in her stomach. Her toes curled against the bed. ‘That.’

‘No, tell me’ he said. ‘Exactly.’

His hand moved against her, his fingers inside her and the heel rubbing against the tender nub of her clitoris. She couldn’t pull the words together around the hot, sliding pleasure that was almost - tormentingly almost - there.

‘You,’ she managed, ‘inside me. Please.’

He made her come first, fingers and wet, sweet mouth and teeth chewing bruises onto tanned skin. She sprawled out on the bed afterwards, boneless and gasping. Satisfied for the first time since she’d started wondering when he was going to get around to making a move, instead of worrying he would.

Monroe lay on top of her - the weight of him against her sending aftershocks of _yes_ bouncing through her body - propped up on his elbows. She stroked his back, fingers following the slope of muscle down to the curve of his ass. Her nails dug in. He liked marking her, it seemed only fair to return the favour.

‘Miles is going to back soon,’ he said.

Charlie breathed in raggedly, the immediacy of that cutting through the fuzzy langor of the moment. ‘Tonight?’

His mouth twitched. ‘No. Not that soon.’

She tightened her fingers around the handful of backside and dragged him closer, sliding a kiss across his shoulder. Miles...he had plenty of secrets of his own. This could be her secret - and it might as well be a good one.

‘Plenty of time then,’ she said. A shift of weight rubbed her thigh over the hard length of him, making him groan into her hair. ‘Please, Sebastian?’

It still felt odd - intimate in a way that shouldn’t matter considering his fingers had been inside her, but better than Bass. He shuddered and dropped his head to her shoulder, breathing hard against her sweat damp skin.

‘Stay the night?’ he bargained. ‘In my bed, because you want to be here.’

Charlie was pretty sure they were both sick - him to need her so much; her to be aroused by it. She kissed his temple, the only part of him her mouth could reach.

‘I do want to be here,’ she promised. ‘With you; till this is over.’

He made a long arm and dragged the bedside table drawer out, fishing around until he came out with a limp sheath. It was tied with thin red ribbon and Charlie had only ever seen one before. The idea of Monroe using it...on her… She wasn’t sure if it was hot or disquieting.

‘Someone believes in being prepared,’ she said, trying to sound amused. Worldly. It had been a while since she’d felt quite so hick.

‘I don’t want a child,’ Monroe said flatly. ‘I want you. I want this. Nothing else. If you stay-’

‘I’m not staying.’

‘I don’t want to hurt you. Not you.’

There was something wounded in his face, that sharp edge of something angry behind his eyes. Charlie didn’t think he’d turn it on her, but she didn’t understand the sudden shift either. She hugged him, skin to skin and her lips to his ear. ‘You won’t. I won’t let you.’

  
  
  
  



End file.
